A. Read the whole thing over. I've added stuff.
B. If you see any glaring errors, point them out. I'm terrible at editing. xd
C. I'm not sure about the way I worded the ending. If, after you've read the rest, you can help me with it, it would be appreciated.
D. ATTN NOVA: IF YOU DARE SAY ANYTHING ABOUT A CERTAIN PART NOT SEEMING REAL, I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN. AND I WILL NOT BE SPELLING OUT EVERY LITTLE THING. YOU MUST GATHER IT FROM THE READING.
E. If the Arabic doesn't show up, sorry. sweatdrop
Greetings. My name is Salimah Ali. First off, please pardon my English, as it is not my first language. I cannot say why, but I felt a deep urge to write you regarding certain events of my life; in particular, ones that occurred during my fifteenth year of life.
To understand that time, you must first understand my history. I was born in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. My parents, who were not very wealthy, had been saving for years to move themselves and my elder brother Zahir to America. My birth set them behind quite a bit, for you see, I was born with only one arm. Because of this and other complications with my birth, as well as our lack of good medical insurance, it was nearly nine years before we had the money to immigrate to Michigan, U.S.A. Soon after, my younger sister, Tahani, was born, the only one of us who could claim to be an American citizen.
Things were beautiful for about a year after that, but then they went plummeting down. Zahir, who was seven years older than I, started doing strange things: touching me in places I was uncomfortable about and trying to corner me alone in rooms. My father got into drugs and drinking and began yelling and swearing at all of us, even my mother, constantly, over the littlest things or even nothing at all. Worst was my mother, who noticed little and did nothing about what she did know.
My family was spiraling out of control. At eleven, when Zahir died in a car crash, I cracked, spilling the whole living situation in the autobiography piece we were doing for a class at school. Tahani and I were ripped from our unstable home and placed in foster care, which for us meant going from home to home every few months, sometimes even every few weeks. Tahani alone might have had a chance for adoption, or at least a steady foster home, but… I couldn’t let her go. I told our social worker from the start that we were to stay together, no matter what. I had promised her from the cradle that I would take care of her. I never break a promise.
Despite the struggle of those fifteen years, I had not yet hit rock bottom. At that point, I didn’t even really have an idea what rock bottom was. Blissful ignorance would have sufficed for the rest my life, but I was not that fortunate. I never had been.
I suppose you could say that the only luck for that year came from the fact that for once the move to a new foster home didn’t happen in the middle of the school year, but just before it began. I could pretend to be like any other Michigan freshman, starting afresh after a summer away from learning. Tahani would start first grade this year, where she would be taught to read in English.
If only life could really be as simple as I could make it in my stories. I knew that despite this apparent “luck,” nothing would be easier. Tahani might be alright with the other six-year-olds, who knew little of prejudice, but I had learned that all teenagers knew the ropes. My dark skin, accent, lack of an arm, and being in foster care, along with my unique eyes, caused people feel the need to do more than stare.
Mr. and Mrs. Tibble knew that buses were never good places for foster children. Thus, they had chosen their house near enough to the schools that any kids they had could easily walk. Each morning I was to take Tahani and their ten-year-old son Ryan across the road to the elementary school. From there I was to go straight to the high school next door.
The high school in Nowhere, Michigan, looked more like a medium-sized house than a school. It was two stories high, but only had eleven rooms, including a bathroom, office, and principal’s office. For P.E., lunch, counseling, and the nurse, you had to go to the elementary school.
The only way you could tell the old blue building was a schoolhouse was the sign. It read: “Welcome to Nowhere High School! Student Population: 42!” I was that forty-second student, come to make the freshmen class a round ten students strong. I snapped a photo of it as a memoir of the day I counted, even just this little. Perhaps I’d give a copy to the school before I inevitably left as proof they once had forty-two kids attending their small little school.
I took a deep breath, readjusting the strap of my tote bag, and turned the doorknob on the apparent “side” of the school and stepped inside. Thinking about the schedule and map sent to Mr. and Mrs. Tibble in the mail, I knew that I needed to go up the stairs to get to my homeroom, the English classroom. The stairs were at the end of the hall, which, though it was only maybe sixty feet long, seemed to stretch on forever.
A few other kids who had arrived already stared when they spotted me, nudging the people next to them and pointing. I did not respond, simply holding my head higher and keeping my eyes trained on the staircase.
I saw someone reach out just as I reached the doorway. In a panic, I quickened my stride. The spiral steps were blissfully empty. I sprang up them two at a time, grateful the classroom was right next to the opening. I nearly sprinted into the room, flinging the door shut behind me.
“Why, hello there, stranger. Something wrong?”
I whirled around, breathing slightly heavily from my run. There was a young woman standing at the dry erase board, writing out the “Rules of the Land.” She was homely, neither fat nor thin, striking nor dull. I towered over her, yet she had an air about her that made her lack of distinguishing features meaningless. There was just something about her that made me want to spill my guts, but I held it back, though I did feel I could trust her with other things.
“I… I’m fine,” I stammered.
“Well, good then,” she said, then turned around and went back to writing on the board. Affronted –she hadn’t even asked me my name– I went over to the window and looked out. It was a breathtaking view. I snapped an aerial view of the elementary school, as yellow as the sun and contrasting marvelously with the green of the grass.
A bell rang, signaling the start of homeroom. I jumped, startled. Either I had lost track of time while standing here or I hadn’t been right about what time it was in the first place. The door opened, and my nine classmates straggled in. They found seats so easily and without fuss or contemplation that it seemed their positions were predestined.
There were three desks left for me to sit at. Unfortunately, they were all towards the middle of the rows. I discarded the one at the front immediately; if I sat there, all eyes would easily float towards me. The one in the back didn’t work, either; the trouble-making kids always sat in the back. That left the one slightly to the left of the middle in the middle row. Much as I was opposed to sitting there, it was my only remaining option.
The homely teacher greeted them all from her desk where she had retired to when the bell rang, not even looking up at them as she did. She gave no name for them to call her, nor was it written anywhere around the class. I suppose it might have been on a plaque on the outside of the door, but I hadn’t thought to look.
“Now for attendance today. Ali, Salimah?” she called.
I was almost too shocked to respond. No one had ever gotten my name right on the first try. I had never though the Hindi name was that hard, but apparently most Americans felt differently. Finally I murmured, “الحياة الحاضرة.[/size"]I flushed deeply. Why had I chosen now –my first impression upon these fellow students– to slip into Arabic? “I mean… I’m here.”
As though I had done nothing out of the ordinary, she continued on, “Applebaum, Sarah? Bowers, Jane? Grimke, Zebulon? Long, Hope? Malone, Kira? Ruggles, Kennedy? Smith, London? Teffler, Peter?” to which all of them replied “here,” “present,” or even “hello” until she got to the last name. “Weston, Kotori?”
“Yeeseé,” answered the boy who sat to my right. I turned to look at him, and I could see him give me a big wink. Whatever language that was he was speaking, I could tell he’d done it to save me from my embarrassment. Again there was no out of the ordinary response. Finished, the women at the desk handed a piece of paper to a girl in the front row –London Smith, I remembered– and began clacking away on her computer, ignoring the class.
All eight of the remaining students rounded on me immediately, sticking out hands for me to shake and proclaiming their names for me to hear again. Warily –I’d seen this before; they liked to become friends with the freak so they could hurt me when I found out it was all a lie– I shook each one, wondering why all of them were acting so friendly. One or two I might understand, but all? That just never happened to me.
The boy Kotori shushed the rest of them and asked me curiously, a southern twang to his voice, “So, what language was that you were talkin’? I sure didn’t understand it. Is it your native speech?”
Hesitantly –could this be a trap?– I told them, “It was Arabic. That’s what we speak in Saudi Arabia, which is where I come from.”
Kennedy, her face bright with interest, inquired, “Does everyone in Saudi Arabia have eyes like yours, or are those colored contacts?”
My eyes always freaked people out a little. I had gotten used to it. After all, when one has one purple iris and one amber, one has to take the stares that come with it. “It’s called heterochromia, and so far, I’ve never met anyone else who has it, though others do, I’m sure.”
More questions followed: Were you born without your left arm or did you lose it in an accident? When did you come here? Do you like it here in America? What’s Saudi Arabia like? I answered as well as I could, but there came a question I was not anxious to answer: Why are you in foster care?
Seeing I was becoming uncomfortable, Kotori came to my rescue once more, interrupting, “So, are you bring a brother or sister in for Sibling Day?”
“Sibling Day?” I asked, confused.
Quickly, Zebulon explained, “It’s the event that we always have the second day of school. All the high schoolers get to bring in one of their siblings for the day. They can be older or younger. They always check to make sure everyone’s got one first. If not, they have Family Member Day, where you could also bring in a parent.”
“We’re not quite sure as to its purpose, but it’s wicked fun,” confessed Kennedy. “I came in with my older brother two years ago. Basically we all just sat there, but it was weirdly cool anyway.”
“Well, I guess I’ll ask the Tibbles and Tahani, but I can’t see the Tibbles saying no, especially if the school’s been doing it for so long.”
The bell rang again, indicating we had to go to the next class. I followed various people around the school for the rest of the day (though mostly I stuck with Kotori), something I’d never done before. Usually I slunk slightly through the halls, ignoring malicious comments and gazes. Here… here I felt a sort of unspoken acceptance. I found out more about my classmates in one day than I had found out about any of the kids at other schools in the weeks or months I spent there. I found out Kotori was Hopi, Zebulon was adopted, Peter and Sarah were stepsiblings, Kira’s little sister had autism, and London’s parents came from France. I taught them Arabic, and they taught me American, something I had come to find out in the past five years was very different from plain English.
I felt more at home and safe there than I ever had before. Questions were asked out of curiosity, not cruelty. I was a part of a whole, not the odd piece that didn’t fit in. Here was where I belonged. For once I happily put aside the irrefutable knowledge that I would have to leave.
Once at home (homework free, thanks to Kotori the Brainiac), I immediately asked Mrs. Tibble if I could take Tahani, who was bouncing off the walls in anticipation, having heard about it from me on the way home. Upon Mrs. Tibble’s agreement she squealed and ran to her room to pick out what she would wear tomorrow.
Seeing Ryan’s disappointed face, his mother reassured him, “Don’t worry, dear. I’m sure if you’re good Salimah will take you next year. Isn’t that right, Salimah?”
“Uh…” I hesitated, not sure how to respond. There was no way I would still be here next year, I was sure of that. Either way, I would break the poor boy’s heart. I knew how that felt. “If at all possible, Ryan, I promise I will take you to Sibling Day next year, ‘kay? I never break my promises.”
Elated, he ran up and hugged me hard. Awkwardly I gave him a little squeeze. Showing affection to anyone other than Tahani or my German shepherd Pursuit was an odd thing to even think about doing. Luckily, Mrs. Tibble pulled him away to start his chores, allowing me to go to my own room.
That night was no different from any other night I had spent there. I stayed in my room the whole time, except for supper, writing away in my fictional autobiography. Unlike social things, writing came easily to me. Words flowed from my hand to the paper without a single thought in my mind. My latest was a work of art, and almost finished, too. Unfortunately, I could not come up with an ending. There was a tank of a writer’s block preventing me from coming up with one. At ten o’clock, however, I decided that was a problem for another time, put my notebook aside, and went to sleep.
I awoke early that morning, helping Tahani to get ready for her pre-high school debut. She had chosen a light green and black jumper that went wonderfully with her tan skin and black hair. The Tibbles had bought it for her as a welcoming gift when we first came here. She insisted –and I complied– that I wear the matching shirt and pants they had given me so that we would look alike. I braided her pigtails when she asked me too, then did a single braid for myself. I even made a little braid in Ryan’s bangs, which he immediately took out and accused us of making him look like a sissy.
I clicked a hundred photographs that morning, of her, of me, of us. Though I had literally thousands of pictures taken from over the years, I knew I’d treasure these the most. Rarely had we both ever been so happy.
We had just dropped Ryan, who despite my promise was still slightly sullen, off at the elementary school and were headed for the high school building, chatting eagerly in Arabic –which was still Tahani’s first language, even though she had been born in America– when a man on a nearby porch screamed, “Muslim filth! You think you can just bomb my daughter in that dratted wasteland of yours and just continue on, corrupting our children and talking in that devil tongue? I think not! I’ll show you! I’ll have my revenge!”
Screaming obscenities, he rushed towards us. Dropping my bag and knocking hers away, I scooped Tahani clumsily under my arm like a football and ran. Without the weight of the bags I was able to move faster, but Tahani was heavy even with the strength I had built up in my one arm.
We were nearly at the school door where a couple of the students stood, urging me on. I dashed faster and faster, the only thing on my mind protecting my baby sister from this madman.
Bang! I was thrust forward onto the ground, and a crowd kids poured from the school, swarming us, protecting us. Something wet seeped into my clothing. Horror filled me, and for a moment I dared not look. Forcing myself to turn my head, the air was filled with an unearthly keen I’ll not soon forget.
Hopefully, neither will he, who still stood there in the middle of the street, clutching his gun.
They told me his name: Chris Martin. How normal it sounds, how average. Nothing about that name even hints “child murderer.” If someone came up to me just the day before and said, “A man named Chris Martin is going to shoot your little sister,” I would have insisted they were crazy.
How naïve one day made me. How safe one day of belonging made me feel. That’s all destroyed now. It was drowned by the blood from her wounds, buried with her ashes. I can no longer trust, no longer love, no longer dream: it’s all thanks to him.
That day I hit rock bottom.
You want to know what the ironic thing is? We aren’t Muslim. We aren’t from Iraq. Neither we nor any acquaintances of ours had anything to do with the bombing and death of Lieutenant Corporal Cato Swann, daughter of Chris Martin, mother of three. Despite his acts, she isn’t coming back. It was all for nothing. Oh joy, the five-year-old orphan will never be able to toss a grenade again. You may not recognize it, but there was sarcasm literally dripping off my pen there.
By the way, I finished that book. I would have included it, but I doubt you read Arabic. This is how it ends: with a desolate no-longer-sister standing atop her former high school, gazing fondly at the life-ending solidness of the cold asphalt.
I omitted the greeting, you notice, for I could not bring myself to call you “dear” anything, and not even “Monster” could describe my feelings toward you now and for the rest of eternity.
Sincerely,
Salimah Ali
***
“I never break my promises,” she murmured, giving the sealed envelope to the man in the orange jumpsuit.
She went to the blue building where from its roof she could still see the dark stain upon the driveway. Clutching a photo and a red, green, and black garment in her hand, she felt the breeze rush past her as she went to fulfill her promise, going to protect her sister for all time.
